


Want Your Blood

by DoreyG



Category: Vampire Babylon - Chris Marie Green
Genre: Bladeplay, Bloodplay, Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Painplay, Screwed up people being highly screwed up, Wildcard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is one of those moments where you half think, in a creeping and pressing way, that you should step back or at least wonder what the hell are you doing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Want Your Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the wildcard on my Kink_Bingo card... And so I decided to include a lot of blood and fucked-upness, yes. Contains bloodplay, bladeplay and a bit of painplay. And maybe vague dom/sub in parts?

This is one of those moments where you half think, in a creeping and pressing way, that you should _step back_ or at least wonder _what the hell are you doing?_

She does neither. She just takes another step forward, the knife warm in her hand.

Claudius watches her, of _course_ he watches her. The only two awake at this midnight hour (Costin away and Frank still in his room, for some reason, and the two psychics coiled together in the corner like such innocents) and so they have to focus on each other. Focus on the heat, the draw, the frustration that bubbles up the throat like _acid_.

“Where is he?” She asks, and her voice somehow comes out low and scraping. Despite the fact that she wants to punch and screech and _scream_ inside.

He ignores her, simply tilts as far back in his princely chair as he can manage and arches a eyebrow, “what do you intend to do with that knife, Ms. Madison?”

She answers him. Not with words, it is far too late for words, but with a slash of her knife. Biting a line across his cheek, soaking the pale flesh with the slow dribble of sticky red.

Yet he doesn’t scream, doesn’t gasp. Simply tilts his head further back to watch her and… Smirks, like he is king of this situation and always will be, “ _daring_.”

She snarls, for it is still too late for words, and lashes out again. Leaving a deep cut across his collarbone, a deep slash of red just below the still ripped open wounds. The still gaping signs of a mauling that, despite his vampiric state, aren’t quite healing quickly enough.

Yet he still laughs.

He still _laughs_.

And perhaps she should stop here, and be the better woman and turn away. And perhaps she should lift her head and walk off, leaving him to cackle into the silence like a fool. And perhaps she should listen to the better half of herself, the one only guided by the Friends lately.

But the Friends, this late, are muted and whispering.

And she, this late, is _angry_ and with her knife still clutched and sharp in her hand.

She lashes out again, opens a slash down his arm and hears only laughter. Punches out again, gouges a deep wound in his thigh and hears only a huff of amusement. Drags a vaguely straight line up his ribs again, has to fight the urge to trace the oozing blood with a finger and still only receives that ever so superior smirk.

She’s starting to hate that smirk.

She’s starting to get _closer_ to that smirk, her slashes becoming shorter, messier. As she moves closer to that mouth and wants to bite and slash and _ravage_ until she has the information that she needs (what that is she cannot tell, but the knife in her hand is powerful and sharp and she needs _that_.)

He tilts his head up, smugly, as she lays the blade by his neck. Purrs, over a smirk, as she digs the sharp edge in and feels her fingers grow slick with his blood: “anything else that you have to say, Ms. Madison?”

She heaves in a breath, hot and dark.

The blade in her fingers digs in further; he hisses at it and then lets out a delighted breath of air.

She can feel, deep in her belly, a desire to follow that breath of air, down to its source in the churning beat of his body, and make it _hurt_ in the most glorious way.

…Her fingers, slick and red, tighten on the handle for only a moment before she makes her decision. Sharp and final.

“Leave,” she orders the Friends, her voice ragged in the calm.

…And they do.

And his eyes are gloriously wide for a moment, fancy that as her fingers shift _just a little_ on her handle, “Ms. Madison-“

_Yes_.

She doesn’t think for a moment, not a _moment_ , as she twists the knife just a little to the side and slams her lips down into his. Thought would hurt, thought would ache, thought would _frown_ upon the gloriously wet feel of his blood against her neck.

He is shocked for a moment, she can tell as she bites his lips.

But then, _then_ , she twists her knife sideways and scrapes it _down_ (over his cuts)… And he lets out another one of those delighted, filthy breaths and slams up into the kiss himself. His teeth digging into her lip, flooding her mouth with the sharp taste of her own blood.

She shifts, growls. Is in his lap with a twist of her blade into his tender arm. Is sitting there, feeling him clearly hard and brutal and _wanting_ in the savage way she’s always desired, while grooving a cut into his arm and still feeling the sickly taint of her blood working its way down her throat. She grinds down onto him, feels a savage _hiss_ of laughed approval huffed into her mouth.

It is bloody. It is wrong.

It is _glorious_.

And she surges so hard into the huff, blade turning and scraping a rough scratch with just the point, that they fall. Slamming down into the ground with chair and her and _him_ all tangled in a way that is slicking her clothes red with blood and turning her every movement into a little huff of _ecstasy_.

She needs to be closer to it.

She needs to be melting into him. To feel his blood against every part of her, to catch his huffs with every brutal movement of her mouth, to _join_ in a way primal and bloody and vicious and brutal and _good_.

She slams the blade into his chest to keep him in place (he responds with an arch and a laugh) rips her shirt over her head and shucks her bra so hard that it tears into a entirely useless state. Claudius looks for a moment, pleased as she swears under her breath, reaches a nail up to scrape across her breast…

Gets a deep cut across his palm for his troubles. He snickers, a low sound, draws his hand back and places it on the ground in clear surrender. _She_ is the one in power here.

And she is the one that returns the blade to its familiar place in his chest. The one who bucks up to undo her jeans, get them over her thighs with her underwear and toss them into a rough pile with her other discarded clothes. Blood soaked, blood _stained_ , and tattered. As if they’ll never be worn again.

There are more important matters.

She presses herself back along his body, feels the slickness of his blood between them and lets out a sharp little groan at it. He answers her, hand fisting in the ground, and bucks his hips. There are more important matters to face, there could be _no_ matters between them.

She sits up, swiftly, wraps her hand around the knife and pulls it free of its place. He tilts his head at her, daring and _encouraging_ her in equally passionate measure, and she smiles wildly back. Lifts herself just perfectly and-

_Ah_.

The knife slowly scrapes across his hip as she gets used to the new, the _different_ but so fucking _amazing_ , feeling of fullness inside her… And then she leans forwards. Locks her eyes with his clearly aroused ones. Places one hand on his chest, readies her knife and starts to _sway_

…The sways soon become thrusts.

Thrusts and grunts and swearing, hot and filthy between them. As she moves and he follows and her knife _dips_ Tracing delicate lines across his chest, scraping gouges where he hits a point just _right_ , trailing circles as she tilts her forehead into his and _hisses_ -

Her climax comes harder than it’s ever come before. Harder than with the many random men in bars, harder than the brief teenage sweethearts, harder than even _Costin_.

She is left breathing into his neck. The knife dangling limply in the limited space between them, his hand surprisingly soft on her hip.

“Sorry,” she breathes softly.

“Fuck,” he breathes dumbly.

…And the blood cools between them.


End file.
